


Have you been born yet And are you alive?

by Merricat Kiernan (rosa_himmelblau)



Series: The Roadhouse Blues [39]
Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:49:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27351493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/Merricat%20Kiernan
Summary: What the hell is going on?And what's with the hats?
Series: The Roadhouse Blues [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1069713





	Have you been born yet And are you alive?

Vinnie was in Gina's bedroom, sitting by the window, looking out, though there wasn't much to see in the dark. He'd turned down Gina's offer of peanuts and she'd gone away. Vinnie had thought he was alone in the house, then Gina said his name, and he looked toward her voice, and while he was looking away, someone climbed in through the window. He tried to stop the intruder, there was a scuffle, Vinnie heard Gina begging him to leave, but instead he took out his gun and pulled the trigger.

Vinnie slowly lowered the gun to his side, the vibrations of the recoil still going through him. He could hear Gina sobbing in her living room. "Call the police," he yelled tiredly, and sat down on the bed. After a minute he put down the gun and picked his pants up off the floor and put them on. 

Somewhere in the distance a siren sang.

His pants on and properly zipped, Vinnie looked around Gina's bedroom for his shirt. He didn't see it anywhere, and was going to ask her about it when he noticed part of a sleeve sticking out from under Sonny's body. He pulled it out and put it on, the blood spots sticking to his skin. Gina was still crying.

Sonny was still dead. Vinnie sat back down on the bed and waited. 

After a while he heard pounding on the door followed by Gina inviting someone in. He stood up, expecting it to be Frank, but instead Roger came into the bedroom, wearing his Lynchboro Sheriff's uniform and a white cowboy hat.

"Roger, what are you doing here?"

"Upholding the law, Buckwheat, upholding the law." Roger sat down next to him on the bed.

"Where's Frank?"

"He's in the other room. Is he dead?" Roger nodded toward Sonny.

"Yeah, I shot him four times." Vinnie handed his gun to Roger, who first sniffed the barrel, then licked it. 

"What kind of load are you using?" Roger asked. "Your gun tastes terrible."

"Standard issue," Vinnie said. "Does it matter?"

"Not yet. But I always use silver bullets. They give your gun a much nicer flavor. And they kill anything, whether it's real or not. So, what made you do it?"

Vinnie thought, but no answer came to him. He didn't actually remember pulling the trigger. Roger knelt to take Sonny's pulse. "He's dead all right," he agreed, and kissed Sonny on the mouth before standing up. "So, did you shoot him, or was it the princess in the other room?"

"It was me," Vinnie said.

"Sure you're not covering for her?"

"Roger, I shot him. There's powder burns on me—" Vinnie held out his hands, which had traces of lipstick on them. "What more do you want?"

"Me? Nothing, I don't care one way or the other. Except about this hat." Roger pulled off the Stetson, looked at it for a moment, then put it back on. "Why'd you give me this?"

"What?"

"Never mind. I don't care who you shoot, Buckwheat, but **some people** get really freaked when we hang the wrong man." From his tone, Vinnie knew Roger was talking about Frank.

"It was me, Rog. I want to confess." The need to absolve himself was irresistible. He wanted to see all his crimes laid out before him in black and white so he could put his name to them.

"I thought you might. All right, put on your shoes and come with me." Once Vinnie had his shoes on, Roger gently cuffed his hands behind his back. "My deputy takes care of all the confessions," Roger confided, leading Vinnie through Gina's living room and out the front door. There on the porch swing sat Pete, wearing his Easter vestments, white cowboy boots and a white cowboy hat, and Gina sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck. She was wearing a short white nightgown and a white baseball cap.

"Pete?" Vinnie asked, and Roger gave him a warning tap on the shoulder with his nightstick.

"Don't call the deputy by his first name. There's to be no fraternizing between the prisoner and the guards."

"He's my brother!" Vinnie argued, and Roger hit him again, more sharply.

"Not when he's on duty, he's not. He's my deputy. Have you finished comforting the victim?" he asked Pete.

Pete gave Gina a long, deep kiss, then moved her off his lap to the swing next to him. "All finished."

"Good. The murderer wants to confess."

"I am not a murderer," Vinnie protested. "I only did what I had to do. Where is Frank?"

"Frank is in the other room," Roger said firmly. "And as for being a murderer, the dead guy in the bedroom might disagree, but we'll wait for his testimony." Roger took Gina by the arm. "Come on, babe, move it, get up, gotta make way for the wrongly accused." With Gina out of the way, Roger gave Vinnie a push into the spot she had just vacated. "Sit down and confess."

Gina sat in Vinnie's lap, her arms around his neck, her head on his shoulder.

"C'm'on, let's get this over with," Roger urged. "The sooner you confess, the sooner we can hang you."

"You can't hang me! I didn't do anything!" In spite of his need to confess, Vinnie didn't like this feeling of being railroaded.

"C'm'on, Vinnie, you know the drill," Pete said.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I shot Sonny Steelgrave four times in the heart."

"That's not much of a confession," Roger complained. "What we want to know is why you did it."

"He came in through the window. He was trying to steal my soul." At that Roger and Pete began to laugh. Gina was starting to get heavy on his lap; Vinnie tried to move her, but it was hard with his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Your soul?" Pete asked incredulously.

"I got news for you Buckwheat, it wasn't your **soul** he was after, it was your ass."

"I knew you were a cop," Gina murmured. "Alex always slept with the objects of his investigations, too, so I just knew."

"I want to talk to Frank," Vinnie demanded.

"You can't, he's in the other room." Roger said.

" **What** other room? Where is Frank?" Vinnie struggled to stand up, but Pete pulled him back down.

"Vinnie, you can't expect Frank to come to your rescue all the time."

"Fine, then I want to see my lawyer."

"Hey, now that we can do. Say five Our Fathers and three Hail Marys and I'll get your lawyer." Pete stood up and blessed Vinnie, then walked to the opposite end of the porch where he stood leaning against the railing.

Roger sat down on the steps and took out his gun. "I hope you don't want a firing squad; I don't have much ammo and your brother's a lousy shot." He took out the clip and began counting his shiny silver bullets.

Gina had gotten heavier; Vinnie's legs were going to sleep from her weight, and he couldn't get her to move off him, or move at all. "Gina, c'm'on, you gotta get up, I gotta talk to my lawyer," he said, trying to shake her, but she just slumped against him.

"What did you do to **her**?" Sonny asked. He was dressed again, in the same dark, conservative suit he'd worn to Dave's funeral. He lifted Gina off of Vinnie and handed her to Pete. "She's dead. You'll want to mark her as exhibit A. And take these cuffs off my client."

"You're alive?" Vinnie asked, a tantalizing foreboding coming over him.

"I'm your lawyer. Turn around so I can unlock you." Vinnie shifted around so his back was to Sonny, and Sonny came closer, licked the back of his neck, then unlocked the cuffs. "What'm I gonna do with you?" He sat down next to Vinnie on the swing. "You ought'a come with a warning label. 'Course you come with practically anything, so . . . ." Sonny laughed and stroked Vinnie's throat. "Don't worry, you're too pretty to hang."

"If you're not dead, why am I still under arrest?"

Sonny shook his head. "What'm I gonna do with you?" he asked again. "It's the law. Once they bust you, your ass belongs to them. If you're looking for fairness, for honesty and virtue, you came to the wrong place. I told you that years ago."

"Yeah, Vince, you know the kind'a men that are running the show. Why do you think I gave you that bail-out money?" Roger had taken his gun apart and was slowly cleaning it.

"You got cash?" Sonny asked with great interest. "If you got cash, I'm sure I can get this all taken care of. Hand it over."

"It's in the trunk of my car," Vinnie said, motioning to the street where his Porsche was parked.

"Gimme the keys," Sonny said, sticking his hand in Vinnie's pocket and fishing them out. "I may have to give 'em the car, too, but don't worry —I'm sure somebody'll give you a new one." And he and the car were gone.

"Good," Roger said, finishing reassembling his gun. "Now we can proceed with the trial."

"What trial? Rog, there was no crime —and I confessed!" Something about that didn't seem right, but Vinnie had enough on his hands, arguing with Roger; he didn't want to argue with himself too.

"Doesn't mean we won't try you. After all, you're entitled to due process before we hang you. You got it all wrong, Vince. Steelgrave only wanted your heart, and your ass. It's the system that wants your soul, and the system **always** gets what it wants."

"Roger, where is Frank?"

"Frank is in the other room," Roger said with some exasperation. "You want me to write that down for you?

" **What** other room?"

"What difference does it make? He's not here, he's busy, forget about him like he's forgot about you. Come on, we better go back inside. We don't want the neighbors to see this."

Inside was no longer Gina's house, but the prison kitchen, his mother there methodically washing dishes. She was wearing a dress the same color as the uniform of the guards in the New Jersey pen, and a long, white veil that hid most of her face. She didn't look at him or acknowledge his presence in any way, for which Vinnie was horribly grateful; he didn't want her to know he was back inside.

Roger led him to a chair and sat him down. "You just sit there until it's time for your trial to begin. Shouldn't take too long."

Roger left, and Vinnie was alone with his mother. He didn't look around, he just sat there listening to the sound of dishes being washed —china clinking, silverware clattering. She said nothing; Vinnie said nothing. There was some kind of wall between them, something he would never understand. Low, under the sound of running water, Vinnie could hear her praying. 

Roger was back, his hand on Vinnie's shoulder. "C'm'on, time to get your due process started." He pulled Vinnie to his feet, then leaned close to whisper, "You know, she's not really your mother."

Vinnie looked back and saw that Roger was right. He didn't know who the woman at the sink was, but it was not his mother.

They walked into a cavernous courtroom, as big as cathedral. The walls were limestone, intricately carved, though Vinnie couldn't tell with what exactly. He thought he saw a lion, and some fishes.

Roger led him down an aisle past row after row of empty benches. Vinnie thought he saw a woman lying dead on the floor, halfway underneath one of the benches, but when he tried to get Roger to stop, Roger told him it was none of his business. "I let you go back there, you go getting your DNA all over everything, you'll mess up the investigation. If there is one, if there's even a dead woman back there. Either way, it's not your concern. Just sit down with your lawyers and enjoy your trial."

His lawyers consisted of his court-appointed attorney —Jasper had been his last name, Vinnie couldn't remember his first —and Sonny. Jasper was talking on a cell phone, his voice too soft for Vinnie to make out what he was saying. Sonny was looking at him, waiting for him. "Where's Frank?" Vinnie asked Sonny, sitting down next to him.

"Frank who?" Sonny asked, perfectly serious.

"Frank — Frank McPike. Don't pretend you don't know who he is."

"I know who he is; I don't know **where** he is, he's not here. He left this note for you." Sonny handed him an envelope.

Vinnie opened it, took out the paper that was folded inside, but the paper was blank. "Frank left me this?"

"Mm. Yeah. He said you'd understand. I thought I told you to get rid of this suit." Sonny was stroking the inside of his knee, and it was very distracting.

He had; it was the one he'd worn the day Sonny'd hired him. Vinnie didn't know why he was wearing it. "What happened to Marvin Ketchell?"

"You don't think I can defend you adequately? Lemme tell you, pal, I'm the **only** one who can defend you."

"What did I do?"

Sonny's only answer was a smothered laugh. He patted his knee reassuringly. "You just keep those big blue eyes of yours open wide, and you keep telling 'em how innocent you are, and everything'll be just fine. I really hope they don't hang you. Of course, that would be redundant; you're already hung."

The judges came in, a tribunal of old men Vinnie had never seen before, angry-looking and stern. The one in the middle banged several times with his gavel, calling the court to order, then he instructed the prosecution to proceed.

There was no one sitting at the prosecuting attorney's table, but from loudspeakers all over the room came Mel Proffit's voice.

"The accused **thinks** that this is a miscarriage of justice, he **believes** that he is being treated unfairly, he **fears** that he is trapped in some sort of Kafkaesque nightmare, where even the laws of gravity are being twisted to oppose him, where even his own thoughts conspire against him —"

Sonny nudged him. "Kafkaesque?"

"Franz Kafka, German writer, wrote about paranoia, the evils of the police state."

"And he's right!" Mel shouted. "Of course he's right, and do you know **why** he's right? Because the secret paranoid thoughts he harbors aren't exclusive to him! **Everyone** has them, all the time! Standing in line at the bank, watching the video display of yourself standing in line at the bank, who but a moron, an imbecile **wouldn't** wonder if those images weren't being watched by an entity far more malign than a bored rent-a-cop? Who **wouldn't** start to think that perhaps those images are being stored, housed in some underground vault guarded by gnomes, that perhaps all the hidden and not-so-hidden cameras are, in fact, there only to record **your** life, that the man behind you in line at the drive-thru isn't taking notes, that the woman who takes your order isn't carefully keeping track of your every purchase! The defendant is paranoid because we are all paranoid because this is a paranoid world we live in! Fighting paranoia would be like fighting gravity —and even if you won, what would you win? What is there to gain?"

"Jesus save us." Vinnie heard Roger mutter. "We've gone down the rabbit hole again." 

"Do you believe you could conquer gravity? Of course not! And you can't conquer fear, either, because without fear, you can't survive!"

Sonny was becoming restive. He got up and walked around the table, over to the panel of switches on the wall and started shutting things off —first the lights went out, then the overhead fans, and finally Mel's voice disappeared into the darkness. Then, stealthy in the pitch-black room, he walked up to the bench. "What's this garbage got to do with anything?" And when there was no answer, "So, what's the case, anyway? What's he charged with?"

"Why are you the one defending him?" Susan's voice now, out of the darkness, but there in the room, not over the PA system.

"Who better?" Sonny answered, though it wasn't really an answer.

"You should be on the other side," Susan insisted.

"What side?"

"Darling. There's us, and there's them. He's part of them."

"What's he charged with?" Sonny asked again.

"He was responsible for your death," Susan said.

Sonny was back, sitting next to Vinnie, touching his face lightly, just once. "It's my death. It's nobody else's business."

"What about justice?" Mel's voice again, booming from the walls themselves. “What about liars and prevaricators, what about free will —what about God?!"

"Is He here?" Sonny whispered to Vinnie.

"Let there be light!" Mel screamed, but the room remained dark.

"That was anticlimactic," Roger said. Vinnie heard him pull the trigger of his gun, but the chamber must have been empty; all that followed was a click.

"How many lives has he stolen?" Susan asked.

"I don't know," Sonny said. "I don't care. What's he charged with? Come on, make something up!"

"Laying waste to the city! Speaking in false tongues!" Mel's voice was followed by a crack of thunder, then the lights blazed back on, blinding Vinnie.

"Go on," Sonny nudged him.

"What?" Had he missed something?

"Get up —you're wanted on the witness stand, they want to ask you some questions. Don't worry about it, it's all fixed. I gave the judge in the middle your car."

Roger was standing next to him, waiting to escort him up. And up was really the word for it —the witness stand was like something out of a Terry Gilliam movie —a fantastic spiraling tower that grew up beyond the vaulted ceiling of the courtroom and into a rich, black night sky. They mounted the steps together, then Roger pushed Vinnie into the ornately carved chair at the top of the platform. Vinnie's left hand wrapped around something that stabbed into his palm. He looked down at the curved bill of a seagull. All the carvings in the chair were figures of birds. "Sit still," Roger warned, pulling out a coil of rope. "Got to tie you down good. Don't want you hurting yourself once we get started."

"Started doing what?" Vinnie asked. "I don't want you tying me —"

"I'm going to interrogate you, and I've found that sometimes getting the answers I want takes a lot of work." Roger bound Vinnie's hands and feet to the chair. "There, that ought to do it. Now, I just need to get my tools."

From his back pocket, Roger produced a butcher knife. He pulled a stool in front of Vince and sat down. "I'm sure you remember my late housekeeper, and the reason she wasn't much of a conversationalist. So you know it's in your best interests to answer me. Now, you see my hat, Vince?"

Vinnie nodded, unable to look away from the knife. Roger stroked his cheek with it, not quite breaking the skin, and Vinnie held himself as still as he could, waiting to feel the cut.

"Don't look at my knife, Vince," Roger said, tapping him with the knife. "Look at my hat."

Vinnie forced himself to focus his eyes on Roger's head. "I see your hat."

"You gave me this hat, Vince, and I want to know why."

"Rog, I never gave you a hat."

The tip of the knife touched his upper lip. "Oh, but you did. For whatever reason, when you were tallying up the good guys and the bad guys, you stuck me in the good guys column. You gave me this white hat, and you never bothered to find out if it fit or not. I want you to tell me why." Roger moved the knife back to Vince's cheek.

This was the Roger he'd feared, the Roger he'd told Susan was a soulless mercenary who slept with one eye open. Vinnie stared at his hat, afraid to take his eyes off it. "You bought yourself that hat when you went to work for the government."

"Like Halderman and Erichlichmann?" The blade caressed his cheek. "Huh-uh. Your Frank called me the angel of death. He called me a few other things, too. Try again, Buckwheat."

"It's not the same," Vinnie tried to say, but the knife's point stopped him.

"Don't tell me I was just a kid, brainwashed and used. Don't you say it."

"I wasn't —"

"So why the hat? Why the difference? How did I get to be one of the good guys?"

"Roger, where is Frank?"

"Frank is in the other room, dammit! He's not going to come help you, he's doing the Lord's work. It's just you and me up here. If you want help, you better pray to the angels, because nobody else is going to come this high to get you."

"I don't want help," Vinnie said. The carved bird under his hand moved a little; it felt warm, as though it might be alive. "I don't need help."

"Yeah, you're right, you don't. So tell me about the hat. Is it because I didn't execute you when I was supposed to? Because I didn't kill Lottie and Ernest? Because I didn't off Frank? What? I need to know, Vince!"

"It fits," Vinnie said, and Roger let the knife fall. Vinnie heard it hit the marble floor, heard the clatter echoing all around them.

"It fits," Roger repeated, and took it off, setting it carefully on the platform floor. "You don't know some of the things I've done. You don't know where the money came from, how I came to get it."

"I don't want to know, but I can imagine. I don't care."

"And you think a white hat fits me?"

"Rog, I get the symbolism, only how come Sonny's not wearing a hat, black or white?"

Roger gave him a pleased smile. "How come **you're** not wearing one?" The question surprised Vinnie, made him realize that it was true: he wasn't wearing a hat either.

"I'm out of the game," Vince said. "We're both out of the game."

"I've been out longer than you have," Roger said. "Why am I wearing one?

"I don't know, Rog. I just gave it to you, I didn't make you wear it. Throw it away if you don't think it fits." Whatever fear Vinnie had felt was gone now, and he was starting to get annoyed.

"Did Steelgrave ever have a hat?" Roger asked.

"Yeah, of course, back when it all started."

"And was it black, or maybe a more tasteful charcoal?"

"Now you're just being a pain in the ass. When are you gonna let me down from here?"

"Off with his head!" Mel's voice rose from the courtroom below. "Off with his head!"

"Great, the Red Queen's back," Roger murmured. "You wanna get outta here?"

Vinnie looked down. He could barely see the courtroom, they were up so high. He looked back up, about to say something to Roger, but Gina was there, still in her white nightie and baseball cap. "Don't look down, sir; you'll get dizzy, and the pilot will veer off-course. We're about to land, anyway."

"This is a dream," Vinnie said. "Isn't it? Isn't this a dream?" He opened his eyes.

"Sir —" It wasn't Gina talking to him, it was the stewardess, waking him up. "We've landed."

Vinnie rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, thanks, sorry." He fumbled around with his seatbelt, having trouble unlocking it. The stewardess unlocked it for him in one practiced move, and he stood up.

"Is this your carry-on?" she asked, pulling down the black duffle bag he'd bought in one of the airport gift shops, to carry his boots and his new suit. She seemed worried about him.

"Yeah, that's it." He took it from her, and grabbed up the coat he'd taken off, the one he'd rolled up and used for a pillow.

"Are you —is someone meeting you?" She was definitely worried about him.

Vinnie wondered if he'd been talking in his sleep. He felt like he'd been out a long time, which was sort of true —he'd slept practically the whole two hour flight from Phoenix. "Yeah," he lied, "I got a friend picking me up." She nodded, not seeming very reassured. "Really. I'm just going home."

**Author's Note:**

> I had this around for a long, long time, but I could never figure out where it went or how it ended.


End file.
